


Affliction in his Eyes

by Akaiba



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akaiba/pseuds/Akaiba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a mistake. It has to be. A trick, some clever scheme of his Mage Underground to get closer to the Gallows. “Anders…” He means for it to be a question, but the name loses breath as he speaks it, fear tight in his chest as it coils thorns into his throat that drag the words into a weak, thin gasp. Brown eyes turn to him so slowly, lifeless and empty- he does not recognise Fenris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affliction in his Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Art_by_G](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Art_by_G/gifts).



> You can all blame G.
> 
> For beautiful and crushing art, you should all go here: http://art-by-g.tumblr.com/post/118069090860/its-a-mistake-it-has-to-be-a-trick-some-clever

It’s a mistake. It has to be. A trick, some clever scheme of his Mage Underground to get closer to the Gallows. “Anders…” He means for it to be a question, but the name loses breath as he speaks it, fear tight in his chest as it coils thorns into his throat that drag the words into a weak, thin gasp. Brown eyes turn to him so slowly, lifeless and empty- he does not recognise Fenris.

\--

_“Do not touch me!”_

_Anders sneers right back at the hateful snarl that Fenris throws at him. It is not the first time, it will not be the last either. He waggles his fingers, taunting when he knows he shouldn’t because he’s tired of always being a villain in Fenris’ eyes. “The big scary mage only wants to stop you from bleeding out.” It’s snippy and not nearly as witty aloud as he had thought it would be in his head. He can see Hawke rolling his eyes where he supports Fenris’ head but the elf, even laid low on the ground and clutching at his bleeding side, is no less vehement that Anders come nowhere near him._

_“I would rather die than have you touch me, you abomi-”_

_“Enough!” Hawke cuts in, pressing a potion to Fenris’ mouth as Ander’s eyes flicker blue and offence turns to anger. Fenris swallows and Hawke fills the silence. “He is a healer, Fenris. I am fairly certain it’s in his interest to keep you fighting fit so the spiders round here don’t chew on him.” Anders makes an indignant sound. “Plus, I’m not sure the Darktowner’s would be so protective if he wasn’t a good healer.”_

_Fenris finishes the potion, Varric speedily taking it from him before he can attempt to use it as a projectile. “He prays on their desperation.” Fenris accuses. It lacks force without his usual strength, his breath short, but Anders’ face twists in outrage anyway._

_But this time he says nothing. He gives Fenris a wordless, heavy look that conveys pity and disgust before throwing a roll of bandages at Hawke- the rogue catching them effortlessly. “Make sure the bastard doesn’t bleed out.” He snaps at Hawke, stalking away as he shouts over his shoulder, “If he goes into shock, I’ll be over here.”_

_Fenris hates magic, and mages, and demons. He hates mages stupid enough to take power they shouldn’t. He hates Anders._

\--

Breathe, Fenris thinks. He has forgotten how. The gallows crowds shuffle by- merchants, templars, tranquil- Fenris chokes and breath skitters past his dry lips, always so dry in this damned city. Fenris stares at the sun and he wonders if his hands might scrub it clear, that he might pluck it free and wipe it away. He is not looking at the sky and the sun he stares at is red and burned. Fresh. He is too late.

\--

_Kirkwall is hot, even by Fenris’ standards. He’s used to a warmer climate but it’s not this dry further north. The humidity of Tevinter, he is sure, would not choke him like this. Fenris would rather die than ever return to Tevinter, but the dust that cakes his throat never seems to wash away no matter the wine he drinks._

_“Oh good; he’s drunk.”_

_“Anders.” Hawke’s warning tone has the mage fall grudgingly silent. Fenris grunts, lips twisting down as he necks the bottle one last time. He does not sway on his feet and Hawke does not comment, but Fenris can feel Anders’ gaze sweep over him- assessing, weighing, judging. Whether clinical or not, his opinions are not wanted. He knows they are coming, however. The mage cannot help himself. They are barely out of the city when he hears Anders inhale._

_“You shouldn’t fight drunk.” Anders starts._

_“The crowd at the Hanged Man disagrees with you.”_

_“LIke they are a model to follow.” The mage rummages in his bag, lifting a thin vial that has Fenris scowling. “It’ll sober you up.”_

_“You just happened to have that.”_

_“Of course not.” Anders scoffs. “Hawke told me you would be coming with us and I’d rather not be killed because the broody elf is drunk. I knew what state you would be in- trying to pickle yourself like it’s a damned hobby.”_

_Fenris’ teeth grind together and he knocks the vial from Anders’ hand, letting it fall to the ground and shatter. “You know nothing about me.”_

_“You nug-humping little- I tried to do you a favour!”_

_“I want no favours from you.”_

_“Well- good! Maker take you, I won’t help you again.”_

_Fenris grunts his agreement and that is the end of it. He and the mage will be civil for Hawke’s sake but he will not tolerate the mage trying to ingratiate himself- especially not in such condescendingly backhanded gestures._

\--

Someone will see. If he acts, one of the templars will notice. He has moments before someone spies him as it is.

It is no chance that Anders is out here like this, the brand barely healed and not in the usual circle robes of the others. Anders is here as an example. Meredith wants them to see him- wants Hawke to see him. She wants Hawke to know she will not tolerate his harbouring of apostates. Perhaps for the first time, Fenris truly feels the hatred Anders had always described having for the Knight-Commander. It is cold and heavy in his belly, like lead in his gut that pulls and forces bile up his throat.

\--

_“Did you ever think about killing yourself?” Anders had been quiet since he had woken, startled from sleep like the Dread Wolf himself had been after him. He had met Fenris’ calm if curious gaze across the campfire- it is too early to switch watch and Anders is far too shaken to be trusted to keep a lookout right now. He had kept quiet for a long while, breaths evening out, and Fenris had almost thought he had drifted off while sitting up._

_“I could ask you the same thing.” Fenris returns easily, eyes not lifting from the fire. Anders had once commented his eyes looked like cat eyes in the dark, bright and reflective. Fenris hadn’t appreciated it._

_“I’m serious!” So is Fenris. “To get out of slavery, to escape Danarius. Don’t tell me you never thought about it.”_

_“I did not.” Fenris shifts as he rolls his shoulders and settles his gaze on Anders. “To kill one’s self is a sin in the eyes of the Maker.”_

_“You… believe that?!” Anders’ outburst stirs Hawke but the man merely rolls over in his sleep, Fenris waiting for him to settle before he answers._

_“I try to. Some things must be worse than slavery.”_

_Anders gaze grows dark in memory and if Fenris is honest he does not see blue in his gaze like he is wary of, only pain. “Some things are worse than death.”_

_“If that is so, why did you not kill yourself?”_

_Anders is silent for a long moment before he gives a hollow laugh. “I always thought I’d die in trying to get out. Better to die free than… than in there.”_

_It strikes Fenris that this is something they share. Whether or not he agrees with Anders’ reasoning, he would rather die than go back to Tevinter. Anders would rather die than return to the Circle. He has no doubt that the mage would fight for his freedom or die in the attempt. “They would make you tranquil.”_

_Anders’ flinches and Fenris remembers his grief and a man named Karl who had begged for Anders to end him. “That is worse than death.”_

\--

“Anders…” He chokes again. The man before him looks worn and Fenris can see fading bruises on his cheek, under his eye and disappearing under his collar. They touched him. They laid their hands on him- the skin is torn in places. They did not remove their armour.

“Can I be of assistance?” The voice is soft but empty, not one trace of the voice Fenris knows. Fenris’ knees give out and he’d think someone had punched him in the gut with the way his breath is ripped from him.

\--

_Wine lingers between them; soured breath and bitter words bitten into something that might have resembled a kiss._

_Fenris is drunk. He is usually drunk. Anders is sober. There is no excuse for it._

_This is a mistake._

_It will be a bigger one come morning._

_Anders is strangely silent and it unnerves Fenris, so he bites and scratches and fucks harder- anything to tear a sound from Anders and shatter whatever solemn quiet that has claimed the mage._

_Fenris pulls away the moment they are done, pacing as sweat cools on his skin and mouth still tasting of Anders’ skin. Memories slip from his grasp and when he dares look up Anders is dressing. He does not say a word and Fenris almost wants to break this crushing silence Anders has surrounded them in._

_He does not._

_Anders does not look back. This is not one of Varric’s novels and Fenris does not pursue. He breathes a little easier the moment he hears the front door shut. One pebble removed from the mountain weight that crushes him now._

_It does not happen again. Anders makes no mention of it the next day and Fenris can pretend it was all a dream._

\--

His knees crunch into the stone and he sees Anders’ boots- that were haphazardly thrown by the foot of their bed that morning- step into view. That hollow question is asked again and Fenris cannot help the way his hand flies out to grasp at Anders’ belt. He means to shake the illusion- he’s dreaming, having a nightmare, caught in a Fear demon’s snare. This isn’t real.

The fade does not pull at his brands and the Black City does not loom in the sky.

Fenris isn’t breathing properly. His chest heaves but what skitters into his lungs feels sharp and chokes him. “No….” He protests. Anders speaks and it is the same empty, flat tones that ring in his ears and make the thorns twist tighter inside him.

\--

_“I thought you hated magic.”_

_“I have never denied it has it’s uses.” Fenris gingerly touches the freshly healed skin before reaching for his tunic. He deftly fastens it at the front as Anders rinses his hands of the blood and the arrowhead that had made a home in Fenris’ shoulder._

_He can see that his comment has irritated Anders and he braces for the barb he will be met with. “You know, I thought you hated my touch, too. But I must be mistaking you for a different glowy elf because I definitely remember you enjoying my touch.”_

_Fenris bristles, though he should have known he could not trust the mage to leave that in the past as the mistake they both knew it to be. “It is done, leave it be.”_

_“Well, good!” Anders throws his hands up. “I am hardly saying we should do it again- Maker, I am lucky to have my heart after the first time- but why can’t you just admit that you changed your mind then and you could change it now! You let me heal you now- with magic!”_

_Fenris pinches his brow and knew he should have just taken his luck with a few healing draughts. “Magic has its uses- mages have their uses. But you will always be a danger.” Anders is an abomination. Whatever name he calls his pet spirit, whatever good he convinces himself he is doing, Fenris cannot falter. If- when- Anders turns, Fenris has to be ready. He cannot call the man a friend, or a lover, or even a man._

_Anders gasps out a laugh, like Fenris’ words have winded him. He looks away and snorts through his nose, laughter covering the pain Anders wears so plainly on his face. “Good enough to be useful, good enough to fuck… but not good enough to be free.”_

_“I’ve not handed you to the Gallows.”_

_“We both know that has more to do with Hawke than me. Instead, you watch me, waiting for any reason to strike me down.”_

_It is not a lie._

_Fenris straps his armour back on, each clink of metal loud in the clinic as he leaves._

_A small elven girl with dirty hair and a dirtier dress brushes past Fenris, running to Anders. Fenris cannot resist looking back, watching as he bends down to her level and gently asks to see the squalling bundle she carries. A baby, so small and sickly that by Anders’ grim expression there is little to be done but what little there is, Fenris has no doubts Anders will do._

_If Anders were not here, who would they run to?_

\--

The pain is too sharp, the world too bright as it clamours at him and when he presses his head to Anders’ stomach, the hand that rests on his back is not the touch he longs for.

It won’t ever be again.

\--

_“Fenris is no slave!”_

_Later, the words echo in his mind. They were echoed by Hawke, but it was Anders who said them first. Before blue cracks of the fade spread over his skin and Anders’ spirit manifested. When he has nowhere left to walk, nothing left to break, and Hadriana’s blood is washed from his skin, the words echo in his mind._

_He should not go to Anders, but he does._

_Anders does not seem surprised and he offers no resistance when Fenris pins him to the clinic door._

_The bed is tiny. It does not fit Anders, let alone Anders and Fenris, but the contact is almost… good. He almost thinks he enjoys it until the afterglow fades and his breathing slows and he remembers where he is- who he is with. The panic rises and he flees. Anders does not stop him._

_One more mistake. But one that becomes a habit. Then routine. Then they stop leaving after. Or in the morning._

_Fenris cannot say when it happens, but one day he is no longer surprised to wake and find Anders lying beside him._

\--

Grief washes over him until all he knows is the abyss that has swallowed him; mind swimming and world asunder as he holds on tightly to Anders’ belt. Maker, let him wake. Let him wake and it be this morning.

\--

_“I love you.”_

_Fenris freezes. He is mid-way through writing out the letters that Anders and Hawke had been helping him learn, the mage sat the other side of the table writing his accursed manifesto._

_Anders watches him carefully, the frightened ready-to-bolt expression doing nothing to ease the pounding of his own heart but it has been years now and he had to tell Fenris eventually. Nothing moves, Fenris doesn’t even blink. It’s almost unsettling the way that gaze bores into him and he repeats, “I said I-”_

_“I heard you.”_

_Anders remembers that Fenris had once promised him he would always be a danger. He wonders if Fenris still sees himself as that- as Ander’s keeper._

_The answer he gets, months later, does not promise that Fenris isn’t still watching for a slip. Maybe Anders lies to himself when he thinks he hears it implicit in Fenris’ voice, but he cannot help how he kisses Fenris like he might never get the chance again as Fenris says, “I am yours.” and means it._

\--

The grief turns to anger. He has no time. The templars will notice him, there are not many elves who wield broadswords in Kirkwall and less still who reek of lyrium. He has to get Anders out of here- there might still be a chance…

His brands light, urgency and anger revealing him in a flood and the rush of the fade has Anders choking like he burst through water he was drowning in. Any plans of escape vanish at hearing Anders’ voice.

Fenris surges to his feet and catches Anders as the mage’s legs wobble. Panic and horror writ over his face as he stares with such desperation at Fenris. “F-F-Fen… r-ris?” Each syllable is wrenched free as shock tempers Fenris’ brands into dimming. He had seen Anders’ spirit snap Karl to himself and makes the connection in his mind before lighting his brands again. It is a beacon, the crowds of people leaping away from them in alarm as Anders surges back in a breath.

\--

_“They eat them, Fenris!”_

_Fenris does not stop moving through his forms, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the mage pacing angrily out of the range of Fenris’ broadsword. “They are starving.” He grunts, letting the burn of exercise ease the agitation he had been feeling that morning._

_“A cat?! They’re so cute and fluffy! How could anyone ever eat a cat?! I mean, I get eating a mabari but they’re strong enough to fight back at least, and they’re so much bigger! A cat is just so defenceless…”_

_“One injustice at a time, Anders.” Fenris grits out, letting his movements take over as he attacks the training dummy without pause. He feels calm, oddly centred when he has his weapon in hand. He understands this, he has always understand battle. It takes him a moment to realise Anders has stopped speaking, staring at Fenris in stunned silence._

_It was hardly rousing endorsement, but from Fenris? It was perhaps as close as it might ever get._

_He is not foolish enough to point it out, but he is foolish enough to try and bring a cat back to the mansion._

\--

“Fenris, they-! They-!” Anders cannot finish and Fenris holds him tighter, pressing their foreheads together and feeling the raw, raised skin of the brand against his own skin. “Please, love, you have to kill me.” Anders’ hands are trembling, words scattered between hyperventilated breaths as panic becomes hysteria. “Please! Do not let me be their slave!”

“You there! Unhand the tranquil!”

Fenris must be crushing bones with how fiercely he is gripping Anders. “I-I-!”

“Please!” Armour clanks so loudly and the crowds scatter. Templar authority still holds even as Kirkwall bubbles like an over boiling pot, Meredith’s terror still absolute. “Fenris, I beg you!”

Fenris’ eye close in defeat. He cannot fight this. What has been done… it cannot be undone. He can only do as he has been asked. He will not condemn Anders to this… slavery. He pulls Anders into a hard kiss; so much left unsaid and undone, so much he had yet to learn how to express and now pours into one last kiss.

His hand phases into Ander’s chest.

Anders gasps, gurgling on breath as Fenris fingers close around his heart. He grunts in pain and Fenris grimaces, Ander’s relief and gratitude so clear in his eyes as he splutters, “L-love… you…”

Fenris clenches his hand and wrenches it free.

Viscera is still dripping from his fingers when the templars reach them, Fenris gently lowering Anders to the ground and what grief he feels like an endless pit burns hot under his skin. It feels like wrath and rage and madness. It pulls at him, eyes tracing the inflamed curve of the brand on Anders’ forehead when a templar grabs him.

His rage is without words, but not without voice. He writes it in the blood of the templars that stand in his way- and those that do not, those that flee and beg mercy he does not have. He sees the sword on their chests and he tears it from them. One foot in the fade, another in the physical world; his brands burn like flame on his skin and the templars cannot stop him. All the red he sees is Anders’ blood, one templar for every drop Fenris was forced to spill, for every pain Anders suffered at their hands.

Nothing quells it, every templar that dares to face him only enraging him further. He does not do this for mages or for justice- he does this for the man who gave away every copper he had to any unfortunate who came to him, for the man who fed kittens and healed the poor until he could not see straight, for the man who argued with him until they were both seething but still sat with him and helped him learn to read and write.

For the foolish mage Fenris had fallen for.

They overwhelm him eventually. It takes a wall of them to stand a chance, but Fenris falls. He does not feel the pain.

He thinks he hears Hawke.

His last thought is of the unfinished book on their bedside table; of his fingers carding through Anders’ hair as he read aloud and telling Anders they would finish it tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr: akaiba.tumblr.com


End file.
